February 11, 2005 – Homecoming

February 11, 2005 – Homecoming

Up until January 1966, the farthest I had traveled by ship had been from Brooklyn Naval Shipyard to San Juan, Puerto Rico. I was nine years old then. On Tuesday morning January 4th 1966 that all changed. I was on deck near the bow of the USNS Michelson looking east at the horizon and watching the shoreline of Oregon come into view, the near completion of a 6000 mile journey from Yokosuka to Portland Shipyard.

Travel by sea affords the sojourner the luxury of contemplating his travel and that was certainly the case of me. I had been in and out of Japan aboard the Michelson for half a year. In that time, I had come to see Japan as “home,” the place you returned to get your bearings, to feel the solid earth under your feet. The language around me, on television, heard on the street, and displayed everywhere was not my own but I had accustomed my ear and eye to it. It was comforting and familiar and it had become the compass I used to get through the days I spent ashore. My native language was heard in enclaves throughout the country: on the Navy base of course, and in hotel lobbies where Westerners congregated, and finally in movie theaters where the films were all displayed in their native language with Japanese subtitles.

I was about to set foot on land where English was the native language and signs and media broadcasts were no longer foreign. We had already begun picking up sporadic radio broadcast out at sea and as we approached the coastline the sound of American life was reaching us loud and clear. Curiously, I had missed the commercials—those annoying spots that encouraged you to “drink Coke” or to “see the USA in your Chevrolet.” Those nuisances had provided me a sense of well being, like an annoying friend who was always trying to get you to do something and no matter how you tried to get rid of him he kept coming back. And then when you left him behind you suddenly realized how much you missed him. I’ve always had friends like that and still do.

As we approached the mouth of the Columbia River, I realized how gratifying it was approaching a treasured destination by sea. The ship’s passage took time and we were able to savor the moment of return and to bid a lingering goodbye to the Pacific as we made our way into the treacherous waters of Cape Disappointment, where Lewis and Clark first set eyes on the Pacific Ocean in November 1805. Earlier in 1788 Lieutenant John Meares of the British Royal Navy gave its name. He had sought but was unable to find the river that Spanish explorer, Bruno Heceta claimed in 1775 to be nearby the rocky headland Heceta had named San Roque—hence Meares’s unfortunate name. The Coast Guard still maintains a large search and rescue staff on the headlands due to the large number of shipwrecks that have occurred near the river entrance.

Passing through the mouth of the Columbia our journey was nowhere close to over. We had another 100 miles of river before the Michelson could have its rest and its crew could set foot again on American soil. Those not on duty were in the mess hall drinking coffee and watching the ship make it’s way into the wide mouth of the river. In the distance off the starboard side was Astoria, Oregon, laying its watchful eye on an errant steely citizen finding its way home after many years calling on foreign ports. Off the port side was Washington state, Beyond Astoria, the Michelson followed the river making a long right turn passing Cathlamet, Washington; Westport, Oregon; and numerous other towns on either side of the Columbia: Flaundersville, Waterford, Eagle Cliff, Oakpoint, Looda, among many others. From the deck of the Michelson, these were small communities just starting their day and we were just another ship making its way up and down the Columbia. Funny, how time and place of great importance to those on board ship was just another everyday event to those on shore.

After the initial excitement of entering the river wore off, everyone resumed their daily routine and the places along the river we were passing became just more scenery overlooked as routine forced the observers to focus on their daily duties. I’m struck by how little I remember about the journey along the river. Flashing back I can picture Doc, Red, and others of the Navy crew standing on deck smoking and looking at the shoreline swiftly passing in front of us. The 100-mile journey from the mouth of the Columbia to the Portland Shipyard took most of the morning and by the time we docked everyone on board had already mentally adjusted to being stateside. Everyone was making plans for the time the Michelson would be in dry dock. Most like me were taking leave to visit their family: an intense period of homecoming followed by a strained heartbreaking period of saying goodbye—tough for single guys like me but hell for guys with wives and kids who would leave a long lingering sense of guilt over leaving loved ones behind to fend for themselves.